


Rum and Raisin

by chewsdaychillin



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Birthday Party, Gen, Ice Cream, M/M, MAG161, Martin POV, also he doesnt have a degree and is insecure, but mostly just..... everyone is friends and its cute, emulsifiers, everyone is friends !!, jon rambles and martin is heart eyes, maybe some tiny jontim and timmartin vibes?, s1 martin is tiny he jus wants friends
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-05
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:55:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23501935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chewsdaychillin/pseuds/chewsdaychillin
Summary: When Tim had asked him last week ‘what do you want to do for your birthday then?’, Martin’s first thought had not been an ice cream parlour. And he’d certainly never thought Jon would be there.
Relationships: Jonathan Sims & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood & Sasha James, Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan Sims, but like right at the start just realising.....
Comments: 33
Kudos: 338





	Rum and Raisin

**Author's Note:**

> that birthday tape huh..... yeah....... got me thinking. 
> 
> talk about uk universities in this so for ref: 'redbrick' generally means nicer, fancier, more prestigious. 'poly' is short for polytechnic which were what they used to call more vocational unis. theyre just as good ofc but a lot of people don't think so.

When Tim had asked him last week ‘what do you want to do for your birthday then?’, Martin’s first thought had _not_ been an ice cream parlour. And he’d certainly never thought Jon would be there. 

His first thought, actually, had been to worry, as it usually is. Worry where they found the information and what else they might have seen. His real birthday isn’t anywhere in the institute’s system, he knows that, and he doesn’t keep it on his Facebook or falsified Linkedin. But still, in the tight kitchenette it had felt a bit like being cornered. His face had clearly shown it, because Tim had grinned. 

‘Sasha’s good with computers,’ he’d explained, ‘she’s got everyone’s in the calendar.’ 

‘There’s a calendar?’

‘Yes, and we know yours is next Friday so don’t try and wheedle out of it.’

‘I- I don’t - I’m not wheedling.’ 

‘Whatever you want to do,’ Sasha had said gently, smiling as he passed over her steaming mug. ‘No shenanigans or anything. We just want to do something nice.’ 

‘Oh,’ he’d shaken his head, putting the milk back in the fridge, ‘I don’t want any fuss. It doesn’t have to be a big deal.’ 

‘Drinks?’ Tim had pressed, ‘lunch? Dinner? Cake?’ 

The list had felt overwhelming. He’d thought of all logistics they’d have to go through: the back and forth texting trying to pick a time, a venue, a menu, get everyone there. He’d know how much thought it would take him to do it and immediately gone red. 

‘That all- that’s a lot... You don’t need to-’

‘Want to,’ Tim had said firmly - a voice that told Martin he was being thick.

‘We can pick somewhere that we like if you don’t want fuss,’ Sasha had added, coming to lean against him on the counter, ‘but really we just want it to be nice.'

So he’d agreed to think about it. And had eventually bullied himself into texting Sasha the link to the shop they’re in now, asking her to promise she would say it was all her idea. He’d seen it online and the pictures of children eating happy vanilla cones with 99 flakes had made him think of childhood trips to Blackpool before things started going wrong. 

He’s not convinced Sasha has held up her end of the bargain. Tim bumps his shoulder as they make their way to a pastel coloured booth. ‘Is this what you wanted?’ He checks quietly, and he smiles, genuine and soft, when Martin nods and slides in next to him.

‘Rum and raisin?’ Sasha is asking Jon with a disgusted tone. She’s gone for white chocolate with all the toppings they had. ‘Are you eighty years old?’ 

‘You don’t have to be eighty to have taste,’ he tells her, like he’s correcting pronunciation. 

No one had mentioned inviting Jon, and Martin hadn’t asked. He tries to avoid his boss when he isn’t trying to be helpful. He wants to be a normal, under the radar, good employee that people think off when they want something doing or a good cup of tea and not at all otherwise. But he knows his lack of experience and his clumsiness is, right now, certainly making him stand out. He knows Jon doesn’t really like him - or at least doesn’t like his follow up or his high-piled in-tray. Or his tea, apparently. He always frowns when Martin brings it in to him.

‘Gross,’ Tim says. 

Sasha snorts at him. ‘You’re not much better! Vanilla? Seriously, what were you thinking?’

‘Simple yet effective,’ Tim shoots back across the table. He takes a long loud lick of his cone. ‘And sweet. The Stoker way.’ 

Martin meets Sasha’s eyes - they both screw up their noses. Him at the outlandishness of it all, her at the noise. 

‘Gross,’ Sasha laughs. 

‘Well,’ Tim admits, ‘it was the only vegan one they had and I’m still trying not to lose that bet.’ 

They all laugh for a while at Tim’s petulant pouting. He’s been betting Rosie he can outlast her on the new diet she’s on and starting to realise _she_ actually likes carrots and hummus.

‘She says I can’t get my lunch from Greggs anymore,’ he laments, ‘I’m pining for a steak-bake...’

Sasha and Martin teasingly push their cones in his face and he backs away. 

‘Don’t! I’m a man of honour, keep your milk away from me!’ 

‘How do they even make vegan ice cream?’ Martin asks the table at large, loving the laughter, wanting to keep it up. He huffs at his own joke - ‘I mean, I mean - without any milk?’

‘It’s the eggs that are the real problem,’ Jon says from across the table. Everyone turns, almost jumps. He hasn’t said anything in a while, just watched them all giggling.  ‘The egg yolks act as an emulsifier,’ he goes on explaining to their blank faces. ‘In vegan ice cream they have to use lecithin.’ 

‘Oh,’ Martin says, for want of anything else to say. He’s going to to ask what lecithin is, not feeling, for once, like he’s supposed to know it. But Jon is already talking before anyone has any chance to stop him. 

‘Lecithin,’ he says, ‘is amphiphilic.’

He talks easily, the words tripping, rushing from his mouth freely, not through his teeth like he’s barred them. He talks animatedly, hands moving wildly, so much so that Tim and Sasha sit back, shielding their cones from his flying fingers. 

Martin can’t help but lean in as they retreat, elbows on the table. 

It’s interesting, actually, and Jon is actually half smiling as he goes on down his rabbit hole. Martin smiles too as he watches it, can feel his cheeks sore from smiling. His ice cream is melting, has dripped almost down his wrist by the time he realises he’s forgotten about it. 

Jon knows a lot, it turns out, about emulsifiers. That’s hardly news - him knowing a lot. Martin already knows that Jon is clever. Very clever, really, or at least well read. But before now he’s only seen the snobbish, Southern, ‘ _well, actually_ ’ cleverness that shows his age more than the greys in his hair. 

‘Went to Oxford,’ Tim had half-explained, half-apologised on one of their very first days. Which was eye-rollingly intimidating. _Of course he did,_ Martin had thought: it explained the posture and the voice and the scowling. 

It is sort of impressive. 

But more than anything else it’s always been a source of worry. To have someone that fastidious, that pernickety about the academic rules Martin never learned breathing down his neck. Multiple times Jon’s nearly caught him closing a tab on referencing formats.

It hasn’t helped his stress levels, or his severe case of probably justified imposter syndrome. He doesn’t feel guilty, oddly, he’s been lying for work long enough not to. He has to. He’s used to it. He’s just never been quite so out of his element. Never been surrounded by people who’ve spent almost twice as long in school as he has. 

They’ve all read books he hasn’t. Tim points out neo-gothic architecture. Jon mentions something about Rousseau and Sasha laughs. 

It’s even hard to hide from Tim and Sasha. Harder maybe, because they’re actually nice and curious. 

‘Where’d you do your masters?’ Sasha had asked him innocently. She’d sounded genuinely interested. 

‘Manchester,’ was the lie he’d settled on. It made sense - he knew the area, knew the university buildings from going past them on the bus, could re-inflate his accent if they doubted it. 

‘Oooooh,’ she’d cooed as she’d handed him files, trusted him with them, ‘redbrick?’ 

He’d blushed. ‘No, the poly.’

Even in a lie he wouldn’t dream that big. It wouldn’t be believable - him in a fancy old institution.

But Sasha had smiled, actually held her hand up for a high five. ‘Oh hey! Me too!’ 

Her hand had been warm and enthusiastic against his, and yes he’d felt like a fraud, but somehow also like she’d seen something true. Her smiling made him smile back. 

‘Listen, don’t let Tim tease you about it,’ she’d said firmly, ‘he’s a snob sometimes too but-’ she’d leant over Martin’s desk to whisper, conspiratorially, voice dripping with comic distain - ‘he went to _Birmingham_.’ 

Tim doesn’t come off snobby, but she’s not wrong to pair him with Jon. They have their in-jokes. When the clock goes five and Martin’s packing up, Jon will sometimes let Tim bump his shoulder and show him something on his phone without batting him away with his normal grumblings about productivity. 

Now, as Jon starts telling them about fermentation processes, Tim is rolling his eyes in a fond, laughing way. He’s clearly used to Jon dumping information on him like this, from their research days. Martin’s heard all about the research days. The sound of him sighing makes Martin blink out of his listening and he realises he’s been staring. 

He goes back to his melting ice cream as Jon says ‘what?’ with an equally exasperated tone that says he’s said this before too. 

It sort of makes him feel excluded; he’d panicked when he’d found out he was the only new hire joining a team who’d all worked at the institute for years. But he can’t help but be interested in the stories. Tim seems to be the only person who’s ever actually hung out with Jon. They’ve had film nights. Tim has seen Jon’s living room. It’s a crazy thought. It makes him feel... something. 

‘You sure do know a lot about emulsifiers, boss,’ Tim is saying, with the tone of a kindly full stop. ‘But maybe we can get back to the birthday boy.’ 

‘Oh,’ Martin shakes his head, going as pink as his ice cream as everyone turns, ‘I don’t mind.’

He feels it in his stomach when Jon’s smile drops, suddenly back to his befuddled frown. Only now it looks self-conscious. 

‘Okay,’ Tim intones slowly, ‘but it’s your-’

‘Really,’ Martin says to Tim and Sasha’s skeptical looks, wanting Jon to smile again ‘they’re really interesting. Emulsifiers.’

He’s not great at being the centre of attention anyway.

Jon starts hesitantly, looking around as he picks up pace, more conscious of them watching with amused expressions. But he keeps going, and is telling them all about gut bacteria when Tim cracks a joke and his mouth twitches. Martin decides it’s worth one awkward moment. 

Jon clearly _likes_ trivia. He must have been on Wikipedia or in the library reading about emulsifiers for hours. He _likes_ telling them things, by the bright look on his face. And not just to try and to _seem_ clever; it’s too enthusiastic for that. He wants to share with them. And that’s much more endearing than his usual At Work cleverness. 

The sleeve of his blazer has waffle-cone crumbs on it - tiny maple coloured bits cling to the fuzz of the wool. 

Tim had taken the piss a bit - ‘you know this is ice cream, right? Not the races.’ - and Jon had frowned and said he’d thought they were supposed to dress up a bit and isn’t that what he’s done? Martin thinks it’s nice he’s tried. And, despite himself, he likes the elbow patches. Likes the vintage grumpy professor aesthetic. He thinks it’s sort of cute. 

Oh. Cute? 

He blinks. Realises everyone is laughing at a joke and joins in quickly before they notice he was somewhere else. Okay, moving on.

It’s fun, actually. Listening to Jon ramble and Sasha chime in. Tim’s gone to the bathroom but the bench is still warm. Sasha lets Martin have a bite of her flake and he thinking it couldn’t possibly get much better when Tim whips a cake out from behind the counter, candles shielded with one hand, and starts singing. 

He nearly jumps out of his skin. The effort Tim’s gone to to make it a surprise has certainly paid off - he’d had no idea. Really no idea. His mouth is hanging open behinds his hands as Tim puts the cake down in front of him. The heat of the candles under his chin is nothing to his flaming cheeks. 

At home he’d have seen it, shop-bought, in a small box on the counter, seen it being lit with a corner-shop zippo. His mum would have sung to him alone and rushed through the rests. Not that that’s any worse. He’s just never been surprised before. His dad would’ve been late home. 

His eyes are pricking and he doesn’t want to cry in front of them all, the whole shop, over a cake. So he plays embarrassed, shoves his hands over his face as a group of school kids and an old couple join in, following Tim’s lead. 

They sound so joyful singing, they sound like they really care. _Dear Martin_ , they’re singing. He actually believes it. 

He won’t admit paying special attention to the way Jon sings his name. Properly, two syllables, actually pronouncing the T. There’s no venom in it, no bite, no sigh of irritation. Martin files it away. Maybe he really is sweet under all of it. 

Everyone claps at the end of the song. Claps for _him,_ though he’s done nothing useful. He waves an embarrassed ‘ _thank you’_ to the patrons and the waitress who joined in. They’re the nicest Londoners he’s met since moving. 

‘Thank you,’ he says to the table. ‘Thank you,’ to Tim specifically. 

‘Course,’ Tim smiles, like it’s nothing, ruffles the back of his hair. 

If he’s still crying they don’t comment on it. 

‘Make a wish,’ Sasha tells him. 

(He doesn’t because it’ll make him sad to wish for something tragic like a medical miracle and he can’t really wish for anything else without feeling guilty.)

But he blows out the candles and they let him blame the smoke as he rubs his eyes. 

‘Thank you,’ he babbles again, ‘really, this is so... nice.’ 

‘We didn’t know how many candles,’ Sasha says, letting him move on, bumping his knee as she jokes, ‘so we just put a load on.’ 

‘Sasha wouldn’t let me use the whole packet.’ 

‘You’d have blown the place up, Tim!’ 

‘How old are you anyway?’ Tim asks, ‘and don’t pretend it’s embarrassing.’ He nudges Martin’s cheek. ‘Look at that baby face.’ 

Sasha groans at him, slaps his arm across the table. Martin thinks he notices Jon wince in sympathy. At least he hopes it’s sympathy. He tries not to catch his eye as he says: 

‘Thirty-two.’ 

Sasha’s eyebrows shoot up but she quickly schools them. Tim flings an arm round his shoulders, grinning that he ‘looks great for it’. Jon rolls his eyes at the pair of them, goes to fetch a knife and napkins and Martin thinks, hopes, he’s gotten away with it. 

Then, when he’s cutting into the cake, relieved to be doing something for _them_ , there’s the card. Whipped out from Sasha’s handbag. Bold colours with balloons on the front and a matching envelope. He’s welling up before he’s even opened it. 

Sasha aw’s as he blinks. ‘Told you we should’ve done it back at the office.’ 

‘No it’s fine,’ he sniffs, opening it up to prove he can, ‘it’s fine it’s just really-‘

The inside is simple. _Dear Martin. Happy birthday! Hope you have a great one. Don’t drink too much and see you Monday!_

It’s in Tim’s writing, made neater with effort, but signed by all of them in different coloured pens. Sasha’s put a short row of x’s, Tim a smiley face with its tongue sticking out. Jon’s name is in plain black but it’s not as spiky as his writing normally is. If Martin was an expert he’d guess it’s been written slowly. 

‘It’s really?’ Tim prompts him, reading over his shoulder. 

‘It’s um. It’s really nice of you.’ He looks up. ‘Of you all.’ 

He’s too embarrassed to say ‘thank you’ again when they’re all so casual. Like it’s nothing. Like of course they’d go to all this effort. He knows it is effort they’ve put in. Time and money. The cake isn’t small. But they’re all smiling. 

He hopes they get his gratitude and hopes desperately they don’t know just how much it means. 

On the underground on the way home, Oyster card in one hand, birthday card in the other, he wants to say it one more time. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, just to Tim this time, as they’re changing platforms. ‘Again.’ A whistling scream threatens to drown him out so he waits for it to screech to a halt.‘I know how much trouble it is to organise this kind of thing.’ 

‘It’s no trouble,’ Tim says, but his face has a slight frown on it. They keep walking. 

As they take the escalator, two step apart on the right side, he taps Martin’s arm. Martin shuffles round on his step and looks down at Tim. His eyes are flashing with more than just the reflections of West End and investment ads. There is something serious in them. 

‘It really isn’t trouble,’ he says, sounding very firm. ‘We actually like you, Martin. Me and Sasha and Jon.’ 

Martin covers for the pink clouding the back of his neck by raising his eyebrow. 

‘Okay,’ Tim allows, ‘I can’t really speak for Jon, I know he’s a bit... but listen, even he doesn’t chat shit about chemistry to just anyone.’ 

‘Oh.’ 

Something about that makes Martin’s stomach twist itself. He’s not lactose intolerant, so he decides to blame it on going backwards up the escalator. 

‘Anyway, whatever he thinks, ignore him, just- Sasha and I really _liked_ doing this. We like hanging out with you.’ 

Martin trips over this laces as the escalator flattens out, eyes flitting anywhere but Tim’s warm sincere face. Tim huffs a laugh at him as he apologises to the people behind them, and he’s just relieved to have a chance to digest what Tim’s just said. 

‘Thank you,’ he says, flushing at the amount he’s said that today. ‘That’s. Uh. I like you all too.’ 

‘Great,’ Tim grins, boyish and pleased. ‘So. Pub next week?’ 

‘Sure,’ Martin smiles. A little less shyly than he would have yesterday, then wider, slacker still when Tim pulls him into a quick, one-armed hug. 

He’s staring as Tim dashes off up the tunnel to the District line, following the screaming of breaks. 

Tim shouts over the noise: ‘I’ll drag Jon with us again, yeah?’

He’s joking, obviously. But somehow that isn’t as funny, or as intimidating as it would have been before. Now that Martin’s seen Jon out with them all once - seen him digging raisins out his ice cream with his tongue between garbled, somehow still articulate sentences - it doesn’t seem so outlandish.

He sort of hopes Jon does come. Maybe he’ll have opinions about tannins too. 

**Author's Note:**

> me: im going to write jonmartin  
> me: but what if it was also jontim and martim and sasha was laughing at all this mess? 
> 
> hope u enjoyed :)))))) and also sorry to anyone from birmingham bdewufbrieb xx


End file.
